Changes
by sugahcat
Summary: The demon Hastur and the archangel Michael inform Crowley that for his part in the aversion of armageddon, he will be made human - a punishment and a second chance. But what will he do with his newfound humanity?
1. Prologue

Crowley's angelic name I got from www.sarahsarchangels.com He governed one of the 28 mansions of the moon, apparently. *shrugs* I just liked the name.

R&R please. This isn't really a first draft, but it was done over several days with very little sleep and a lot of stress. It's a bit of a taster, and I'd like constructive criticism and ideas. And please Gods give me a better title o_O I know it's not desperately original, but the idea of Crowley as a human's been knocking around in my head for about ten years now, so I figured it was about time I put it down on paper.

Disclaimer:Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett's. Not mine. 

* * *

Changes  
Prologue

The wind picked up and played with long dark hair as a lover would. It caressed his skin, filled his body, became a part of him. From the roof of his Mayfair apartment block Anthony J. Crowley sighed and looked out on the city. Millions of people crammed into a space that would have better suited a few thousand. Lights twinkled in the myriad buildings, a beautiful display that cost resources the planet couldn't afford. Below on the street, a man and woman kissed goodnight, and after a moment, the woman blinked flirtatiously at the man and invited him in. Crowley watched the display disinterestedly. A small mewl from his side startled him a little, and he looked down to see a tortoiseshell kitten at his side, looking up at him with its big green eyes. It belonged to the woman who lived below him, he recalled, and reached out a hand to stroke it, with no small amount of nervousness. Animals didn't like him, and he thought he might start panicking if it drew blood. This kitten didn't seem to mind him, however, and clambered onto his lap. Running a hand through the kitten's fur, he continued his survey of the London night. He wasn't even sure why he was doing it save that it was better than sitting in his apartment and fretting.

He suddenly found that all he was doing up on the roof was fretting. He sighed. "What do you think, kitty?" He asked the cat on his lap. It just purred contentedly. "Punishment or a second chance," he mused. He couldn't decide himself. 

* * *

YESTERDAY

A knock on the door had woken him from a pleasant dream. He couldn't remember precisely what it had been about, but the reluctance to wake indicated it had been pleasant enough. He lay there in bed, annoyed at being woken up, and feeling odd. He stretched, sat up, but the feeling of strangeness hadn't gone away. There was another knock at the door, less polite this time, and he sighed. He supposed he'd best answer it. They sounded insistent. Swinging his legs out of bed, dressed in nothing more than a clinging pair of silk Versace pyjama bottoms, he made his way over to the door and he wondered if he had a hangover. He hadn't been drinking last night, so it seemed unlikely. Maybe he had a cold. Could demons get colds?, he wondered, and opened the door. He stared, forcing himself not to slam the door and go hide behind the sofa.

"Hastur. And Michael. Wow. Who'd've thought, huh?" "May we come in, Kyriel?" The archangel used his name, his old name that he'd not heard in over six thousand years. Bitterness and something akin to hatred washed over Crowley. How _dare_ Michael use his angelic name? He had been the one to cut off his wings, tearing them from his back with one swoop of his flaming sword and stealing his divinity. Hastur interrupted his burst of angry self-righteousness by pushing past him and reminding him that no matter how much he hated Michael, he despised Hastur a thousand times more. And knew it was returned tenfold. Crowley stood aside to let the angel in. He could feel the beginnings of a headache, somewhere underneath the anger and the fear. Whatever a Duke of Hell and the highest of the angels could want with him, it was unlikely to be good. Especially not after his part in averting the apocalypse. He vaguely hoped Aziraphale wasn't about to get a similar visit. 

"Hey guys, you want a drink, or-" His attempt to remain cool sounded miserable and scared. *Pathetic,* he thought.

"Please sit, Kyriel," Michael said in his musical voice, and the name was like fingernails down a chalkboard. The only reason he didn't say anything was because he was too afraid it would get him into even more trouble. Looking away from Michael, he looked to Hastur, which was a mistake. The demon was grinning widely and unpleasantly. Crowley's headache grew. "We have been sent to inform you of the consequences of your part in the aversion of the apocalypse. Representatives of both Heaven and Hell have convened and-"

"You're being punished, Crawly," Hastur grinned through his too-sharp teeth. Crowley's heart skipped a beat. "Or haven't you noticed yet?"

_What?_ Crowley thought dimly, feeling realisation suddenly hammering on his walls of forced ignorance. 

"Mmm," intoned Michael. "Though we are thinking of it as more of a second chance," he added. 

"...What?" Crowley asked in a very small voice. 

Hastur sniggered. It was the most unpleasant sound Crowley had ever heard. It felt like it was something alive that had got under his skin and was writhing and burning like acid. "You've not noticed?" He asked and laughed. 

Michael ignored his counterpart. "You are human, Kyriel."

_Oh._

That explained the feeling strange, then. His mind seemed to have grinded to a halt, and he looked from one of them to the other, not sure what to say, and not trusting himself to speak. 

Michael didn't seem to notice. "And as such, you have free will. You can do as you wish. And your actions shall speak very loudly to us, Kyriel." Was the angel saying his name as much as possible just to irritate him? Though it was less irritation than having his still-beating heart torn out of his chest. "So be mindful of what you do, for we will judge you for eternity." That had sounded distinctly threatening.

"What, again?" Crowley said softly. Michael raised a perfect blond eyebrow, and then stood. 

"Our superiors felt it was best that you were informed by us," Michael said. "All of your Powers are gone, of course. And everything you created with them is gone also. We'll leave an outfit for you so that you may purchase that which you will need. And beyond that, I can only advise you to think well on what to do with your new life."

"However short and grisly it may be," Hastur added with a hideous grin. Crowley had noticed that the demon had said very little during the exchange, and got the feeling that he'd be hearing his voice far too soon and too often for his comfort. 

"Aziraphale...?" Crowley asked.

"Aziraphale did as he thought best, and thus deserves no punishment." Crowley nodded, strangely comforted at Michael's words. At least one of them was getting away with it. Michael turned in his perfection to Hastur. "Come, Duke Hastur. There is much to be getting on with."

"Yes," Hastur grinned at Crowley as he passed, and followed Michael out of the door. As soon as they were gone, Crowley collapsed on the couch. Mortal. He was mortal. A shudder ran down his back. It was better than he'd dreaded, yet worse than he'd hoped for. And the last thing he'd expected. He wasn't quite sure what to think, so instead he wandered around his flat and started to plug things in that had never before felt the delight of electricity running through their circuits. The fridge had been emptied, as had all his cupboards, save for a tin of fruit cocktail that Crowley didn't remember buying. He then wandered into his bedroom and opened the wardrobe to find a lonely ensemble. Pulling on jeans and a jumper, he found a pair of boots he'd actually bought and found his wallet. He had a bank account, and it all had real money in it. He had hoarded a collection of ancient trinkets and sold them one day, for reasons he still wasn't sure of but was infinitely glad for. He then picked up his car keys and left the flat. 

Wandering down the stairs toward the Bentley, he concentrated very hard on not thinking. He would need clothes and food. Humans shopped when they felt depressed, he had seen a report on the news. Spending made them feel better, it seemed. So that's what he would do. 

* * *

He had spent four hours in London after parking on the outskirts of the City, frustrated beyond belief by the traffic now he couldn't just get past it with a single thought. 

Thankfully his body, the one he had been wearing for several centuries was young and healthy, or so it seemed at least. He guessed he was about twenty-three, and had hard muscles underneath incredibly pale, alabaster skin. Amazing how you never notice these things when you're immortal. It had been the changes that had shocked him most, though. He'd passed a mirror in a department store and caught sight of himself. And stared. His eyes were blue. Not the innocent azure of Kyriel, but closer than they'd been since before time began. That had been a shock, and Crowley cursed Michael repeatedly for bringing up old and well-buried memories of Heaven. Heaven was something he tried not to think of too often, and the human mind couldn't quite comprehend it. But he knew that he had been happy there. Well, that wasn't quite true. It wasn't the place that had made him happy. It was the company, and that of one angel in particular. He'd closed his eyes and forced the memories away, and thrown himself into shopping. 

It was fortunate those trinkets had made him several million pounds, because he spent like a demon. Designer clothes that he couldn't even carry and needed to get delivered, and then he'd just got a woman whose job it seemed to do your shopping for you - remarkable how lazy humans can be - to get him any food he might need. That too he had delivered. Shoes, books, DVDs, an amazing variety of wonderful smelling lotions and potions for the bathroom - he had bought anything he'd seen and desired. And then he'd made his way back to the Bentley, feet hurting, and driven home. He'd waited until the food got delivered, got the delivery man to put it all away for him with the help of a fifty-pound note and then collapsed on his bed. 

* * *

Next Part 

* * *


	2. Part 1

Disclaimer:All is not mine. It's Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman's. 

* * *

Changes  
Part 1

Crowley sighed, taking the cat into his arms and standing. He'd never noticed how disgusting the air in London was. How thick and polluted and downright dirty it was, getting into the lungs and doing unspeakable things to them. Mortality itched in the back of Crowley's mind and he resolutely ignored it. Going back into the building, he put the cat down and pointed away from him. 

"Go on. Back to your owner." The cat merely mewled at him. Crowley sighed and picked it up again. "No," he told it. "On top of everything else, I don't need to look after someone else." He went downstairs to the door of the flat below and rapped on it. An old woman who Crowley vaguely remembered seeing around answered the door, and her eyes widened in delight when she saw the animal in Crowley's arms. 

"Oh, Lockheed!" She said, taking the bundle of fur from him arms. "Oh, thank goodness. I thought you were lost," she murmured to the cat. She then looked up at Crowley, beaming. "And thank you, young man."

"She was on the roof," Crowley said by way of explanation, not feeling very comfortable around humans now he didn't have to be mean to them. 

"Oh, you old silly," she cooed to the cat, who licked her nose. Crowley was about to turn and go, when the woman spoke to him once more. "You must come in for a cup of tea, dearie," she told him. He would have refused but he'd been dying for a drink of tea all day and didn't have the first clue how to make one when the option of simply willing it into existence had disappeared. 

Entering the old woman's rooms, he looked around curiously. Frank Sinatra was crooning softly on the turntable, and the fresh scent of lavender hung in the air. The furnishings were in neutrals, and a few landscapes decorated the walls in dark wooden frames. 

"How do you like your tea?" The woman asked as she bustled into the kitchen.

"Uh, sweet, white."

"One sugar?"

He shrugged. "Sure." He had no idea. He supposed it was worth a try.

He followed her into the kitchen, curious about the home of the old woman. More neutrals, a to-do list on the fridge. Nothing terribly fascinating. 

"Have you been up to anything interesting today?" She asked, making small talk. 

"Not really. Watching TV and thinking," he answered absentmindedly, looking at the herbs in the rack on the wall. 

"Your day off work?" She asked, and Crowley smiled without amusement. Yes. His first day off work for six millennia and more. 

"I don't work anymore," he told her. "I've got money, I don't see why I should work," he said, somewhat defensively. 

"Did you win the lottery?" She asked with interest. 

Crowley sighed. Humans were so damned obsessed with money; he wasn't sure he saw the point. "No. It's... old money," he said. And it was. The items he had sold were _very_ old. And there were more where they came from. He was hardly a hoarder, but things had built up over the years.

The woman's eyebrows rose, and she looked slightly guilty. Perhaps she thought he'd inherited it from a dead parent. The itch in his mind grew. His insistence on ignoring it increased in return. "Well, you should put your time into something fulfilling," the woman suggested. "I worked at an Oxfam shop once, and it's more rewarding than you might think. And it certainly passes the time." The kettle boiled and Crowley tried to imagine himself working in a charity shop. Thankfully the mental image eluded him. The woman offered him a cup that he took automatically, then cursed as it burned his hand and adjusted his grip to the handle. Stupid human body. So damn fragile.

"If you want something to do, you could always clear up the garden downstairs," the woman suggested as she returned to her front room and sat on her sofa. "Are you any good with plants, Mr...?"

"Crowley. Anthony Crowley."

"Ah, with an 'h'."

"Yeah," he agreed, wondering if it mattered. It never had to him before. 

"My husband never pronounced the 'h' in his name, though it was there." Crowley looked at the cat glumly. The old woman started to talk about name pronunciation, and his mind wandered. It appeared that he wasn't over with the thinking for the night. His thoughts crept to Aziraphale. He wanted to check the angel was all right, to have him come over and hold him until he felt better. That thought made him feel strange. He wanted the angel to hold him. Well, there was no-one else who could, and he needed comforting, and surely an angel was the best sort of being for that. It had nothing to do with wanting the angel with him for always, to do with their being soulmates, being the other half of each other, nothing at all to do with any of that, he told himself. He wasn't convinced. "Don't you think?" The woman asked, and Crowley stared at her blankly. 

"I'm sorry, I wasn't listening," he admitted. 

The woman's lips curved into a smile. "Thinking about your gentleman friend?" She asked, and Crowley stared at her. How in the hell did she know? "Don't worry, dear," she said, reaching over to pat his knee. "I know some people don't understand, but I do. Love is love, no matter who it's with." _Love._ he thought to himself. He swallowed thickly and tried to add that to the list of things not to think about. It turned out it was much harder to ignore than his newfound mortality. Probably because he'd been thinking about it since before time began, a traitorous part of him whispered gleefully. He stared at her. He looked at the cat and wanted to go home. The thought of his angel once again wandered into his mind at the thought of 'home'. He scowled at it. "Oh dear, you aren't having problems with him, are you? He seems like such a nice young man."

"You have no idea," he murmured, and finished his tea. "Er, thanks for the tea. I really should get off to bed."

"Alright, Anthony," she smiled, and stood to let him out. "Oh, I haven't introduced myself! I'm Rosemary, but everyone just calls me Rose. You should come down more often. It's nice to have someone to chat to."

"Yeah," muttered Crowley, and stroked the cat one last time. It purred its appreciation. He left, and made his way to his own flat, feeling strange. Opening the door, he made his way to the fridge, and looked around for something that was immediately edible. Not seeing anything else, he picked up a couple of carrots and put on MTV2 as the background music to his thoughts. Why hadn't he told Aziraphale yet? He was the only other being on this planet that he could tell, that he trusted, that he even liked. And yet the thought of telling him what had happened terrified him. Maybe because that would make it real in his mind and he would go crazy. It wasn't so much being human that he minded. It was the mortality and the weakness and that promise in Hastur's voice as he left. He would be completely at the mercy of the demon and that wasn't a place he wished to be. It made him feel sick. God, he wanted to speak to the angel. But he didn't dare pick up the phone and he wasn't even sure why. Sighing, he closed his eyes, and was asleep within a minute. 

* * *

When he woke up, he felt terrible. His face was stuck to the leather of his sofa, for a start. 

"Ow." He said, and pushed himself up onto his arms. "Ow," he repeated as agony raced down his neck and spine. He supposed that was what he got for sleeping somewhere so unsuitable. Standing gingerly he stretched and heard something pop. He moaned, and made his way to the bathroom. Climbing into the shower, he found it utterly delicious, the heat over his skin and the pressure of the water on his shoulders and back. He then went into the bedroom, looking through his wardrobe for something to wear. Finding some jeans that were deliciously tight and pulling on a t-shirt that oh-so-ironically declared him to be a fallen angel, he looked at himself in the mirror. He supposed he should be glad that the united idiocy of Heaven and Hell had let him keep his old body. As humans went, he looked _good_. He smiled somewhat flippantly, and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes were still strange to him, though. He wondered if he'd ever get used to them. 6000+ years would get you rather used to a feature, he mused, and looked out of the window. The sky stretched endlessly blue, broken only by a tiny wisp of cloud miles up. It was a nice day, Crowley mused, and wondered what to do in it. He supposed he should probably do _something_ - he couldn't really just sit around here for the rest of his life. He shuddered at the thought and ignored it once more. He could go to see Aziraphale, he mused, and the thought gladdened him. That's what he would do. What he'd say when he got there he had no idea, but it was a start. 

The journey was easier this time because it didn't involve going near the centre of London, so there wasn't as much traffic. Pulling up outside the angel's shop, he saw there were no lights on. Well, that was hardly a surprise. Aziraphale did whatever he could to keep customers out of his shop. Of course, the option of just opening the door and going in was gone, so he'd have to try knocking. And then maybe picking the lock. He knocked, and got no answer - not that he'd really been expecting one. He pursed his lips. He knew how to pick a lock, but had absolutely nothing with him that he could use. He sighed, and turned to see the woman from the shop next door poking her head around the door. 

"You after Mr. Phale?"

He didn't miss the undertone. "Hmm. Yeah," he admitted. Guilty as charged on both accounts. 

"He's gone to Manchester on some sort of business. A book fair, I think he said."

"Oh," Crowley said, feeling a little glum. 

"Why don't you come in? I can make us tea." Again the offer of caffeine-in-a-cup worked and he entered the shop with her. She had a good figure, and badly bleached hair. She smiled at him in a way he supposed was enticing. 

"Milk, one sugar," he muttered, and she smiled, disappearing off into a kitchenette in the back. He wandered around the shop, looking at the fascinating wares of the store. Picking up one DVD, he stared. Did people _really_ do those sorts of things to one another in the name of pleasure? They really _were_ more imaginative than Hell. Putting it down, he wandered again, past the bizarrely shaped "Love Toys" section to where magazines lay stacked up on a shelf. Many of them were shrink-wrapped, but he picked up one that wasn't and flicked through it. Its pages were filled with pretty boys doing things to each other. The rush of blood to his groin might have been pleasant in other circumstances, i.e. not when he was waiting for the female owner of the shop to bring him a cup of tea. 

"Go away," he muttered, but made the mistake of looking back down at the magazine. He groaned.

"If you like it that much you can keep it," the woman said, two mugs of tea in her hands and a wide grin on her face. Her eyes were fixed on his groin. "Wow, you are a big boy, aren't you?" 

Crowley snatched a mug from her and glared. She merely chuckled and wandered over to the cash desk and sat on the stool behind it. 

"Trust me, hon, it's not the first time I've seen that happen. It won't be the last either. No need to be embarrassed."

"I'm not," he said truthfully. More irritated by lack of control and overwhelmed by hormones.

"Really? That's probably the first time anyone's said that. If Mr. Phale so much as looks into the window he blushes." Crowley grinned. Well, yes. He would. The woman leaned forward on her elbows. "I'm Cynthia, by the way."

"Anthony Crowley."

"That's a nice name." He shrugged. "So, Anthony, what's going on with you and Mr. Phale?"

He blinked. "Sorry?"

"I think you know exactly what I mean." He had a sneaking suspicion. "I see you 'round there all the time, you know, and he doesn't get too many other visitors. And he's pretty cute," she added with a grin.

"Yeah," Crowley said, and then sighed at himself.

"You don't need to be to be embarrassed or anything, you know."

Well, there was need for something. Aziraphale was still an angel, after all. The reason he had kept his hands off of him for the last six thousand years still stood. A human should no more touch an angel than a demon should. But that didn't stop the way he felt. Or the way Aziraphale felt, for that matter. He knew he cared for him. He had to - they were made for each other, quite literally. God really did have a sense of humour and it was a cruel one. 

"Is everything okay?" Cynthia asked, concern on her face.

Crowley sighed and leaned on the counter. What could he tell her? He suddenly had the great urge to tell her everything. She seemed to be pretty well versed in the tangled and twisted labyrinths of love, so maybe she could give him some advise.

"Me and-" What was he calling himself these days? He shrugged. "Azira-" The woman didn't bat an eyelid so he supposed it must be right. "We... Y' know, like each other. But we can't really do anything about it because of his family. They're... very religious." Never a truer word had been told. 

Cynthia tutted. "I hate people like that, you know. Not religious people per say - my girlfriend goes to the Synagogue every week - but the sort of people who try to dictate who can love who." She shook her head. "I don't think God would make it forbidden for anyone to love anyone. That's what it's all about, right?" Crowley supposed it was. But that didn't change the fact that Aziraphale was something of a special case. "It's in the Bible or something, isn't it?" She asked. "Love is one of the seven heavenly virtues - like the sins in Se7en only, you know, not a sin. The opposite." Cynthia's theology left a lot to be desired. But still, she was right. While love wasn't actually one of the Seven Cardinal Virtues, it _was_ pretty high in Heaven's agenda. Crowley supposed the best answer would be to wait until Aziraphale got back from Manchester. Cynthia was looking at him curiously. 

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever shagged a bloke, then?"

Crowley's eyebrow rose. "No." Sex with humans was the realm of the incubi and succubae, and they got really pissed off if you encroached on their territory.

"Want some pointers, then?" She asked, and Crowley stared at her. She grinned and hopped off the stool and emerged from behind the cash desk with a carrier bag and started to fill it. "I've watched the two of you for far too long to not do anything now I know you're star-crossed lovers," she told him. After she'd got as much stuff in the bag as she thought relevant, she thrust the bag at him. "Here. On the house. Take this home, get some pointers, then take Azira out to dinner and seduce him. Screw the family, right?"

'It isn't that simple' Crowley wanted to say, but instead just took the bag. Looking behind him, Cynthia saw she had a customer - a nervous looking middle-aged man in a dirty Mac, and smiled at Crowley. "Come back and tell me what happens, okay?"

He nodded and watched her try to make the man comfortable before shaking his head and leaving. He glared at the parking ticket that had been slapped on his windscreen, and tore it off, wiping at the mark it had left. He threw the bag and the ticket onto the passenger seat as he got in. Driving back to his flat he wondered about love's importance in Heaven. Did that mean that he could show his love for Aziraphale without the angel Falling? That he could have done at any point during the past six thousand years? During the last millennia they'd managed to get drunk and kiss each other about once a century, but one or the other had run away, fearing for the other. God, Aziraphale was a bloody wonderful kisser, though. A smile played over Crowley's lips as he pulled into the garage and then made his way up to his flat. Sitting on his couch, he wondered what Cynthia had given him. Opening the bag, he pulled out a few magazines filled with pretty boys touching each other, a couple of DVDs and a copy of the Karma Sutra. He chuckled softly as he wondered whether Aziraphale had a first edition of _that_ book.

Standing he strolled into his kitchen and made himself a sandwich. He ate it slowly as he watched the - very depressing - news. He looked at the phone and sighed. He wanted to speak to Aziraphale - now more than ever since he couldn't. He sighed and flicked through the impressive range of channels on his TV, and found there was nothing on any of them. It was amazing, he mused, that you could have over a hundred channels and not find a single thing worth watching. Lying back on his couch, his eyes closed, but he forced himself to sit up before he fell asleep. It was only just past midday. There must be something to do. What did humans do for fun? Well, they worked, but Crowley had no intention of doing that. His eyes wandered to his bookshelf. He had read all the books that lay there, and he hadn't bought any new books in centuries. If there were any good ones, he had just borrowed them from Aziraphale. Wandering over to his bookshelf, he saw with amusement that a copy of the Bible had mysteriously appeared. He picked it up and wandered back to his sofa. It was nothing if not a classic, he supposed, and he had a staring role in the first chapter. 

He'd gotten as far as the Book of Job when he noticed he was hungry. He stood, stretched, feeling absolutely stiff, and staggered into the kitchen, trying to will feeling back into his left leg. He opened the fridge, looked inside, and decided he wasn't quite brave enough to try cooking yet. He gave the microwave a suspicious look. Remembering there was a takeaway a few minutes walk away, he decided to try it. Pulling on a pair of boots, he picked up a jacket and left the flat. 

As he stepped outside, he shuddered in the cool summer breeze and pulled his jacket a little tighter around him. He crossed the road and made his way to the takeaway. As he did, he passed a row of shops, and stopped. In the window of one, behind a display of cat food, he saw a snake. She looked right back at him. Putting a hand on the window, he looked at her. She was _beautiful_. He'd always loved snakes, and felt sort of guilty for their bad reputation. Walking into the shop, he went over to look at the snake more closely. She was a grey-purple corn snake, only a baby and tiny.

He turned to see a shop assistant flicking through Dog Owners Monthly. 

"How much for the snake and everything it needs?" He asked, deciding on impulse to buy her. 

The shop assistant blinked at him. "Well, for that snake, it'll need about a-"

"I said how much?" 

"Um. The snake's £125, and there'll be..." The shop assistant caught Crowley's irritated look, and finished quickly. "About £400, all told. And an extra £50 if you want it delivered."

"And can I get it all delivered today?"

"Sure."

"Do it," Crowley told him, and handed over his Visa. 

"Okay, can I just check you know how to look after snakes?"

"Yes."

"Okay, and your address?" Crowley told him, and then signed for his snake. 

"It'll be there within half an hour, then," the shop assistant told him, and he nodded. Just before he left, he noticed the takeaway menus on the counter and took one of each and went back to his flat. Sitting on the sofa and half-watching television, he ignored his stomach's insistence that it wanted feeding and waited for his snake. A ring at the intercom asked him to come down to help bring the stuff up to his flat, and he went down and brought the snake and the heating system up. 

As the shop assistant set up the cage, Crowley took the snake out of her box. She looked up at him, and he down at her. There was something comforting about the tiny animal in his hands, and something infinitely familiar. He smiled. 

"Okay, there we go. You'll need to feed her once or twice a week, you can get the mice from us if you like," the shop assistant said. Crowley put the snake into her new home and watched her explore for a moment. "What are you going to call her?"

Watching her for a minute, a snake-like smile curved Crowley's lips. "Eve." 


	3. Part 2

Warning:Masturbation and fluffiness. Something for everyone, then. I upped the rating, just in case. So you have been warned.

Hmm. Note to Americans and other aliens:Crossroads is a soap about a hotel, mainly. It was originally made in the seventies, and was renowned for dodgy sets and plotlines as thin as the walls. And for some reason has been remade. 

If you like Crossroads, no offence :D

Heh, I just reloaded this 'cause I'd typed "Fellowship of the Rings" instead of "Fellowship of the Ring". I'm such a geek :P

Dedicated to Scarby, for pointing out my laziness in not bothering to check what the Cardinal Virtues are :P 

Disclaimer: Not mine. Gaiman's and Pratchett's. 

* * *

Changes  
Part 2

One blue eye opened as Crowley awoke and he grinned. The tent in his sheets told him his human body was rather horny. Cynthia's fault for giving him those magazines - and his own fault for looking at them. He stretched luxuriously and a hand snaked down to touch himself. He sighed with pleasure. Maybe being human wasn't so bad after all. The sudden image of his angel touching him made him groan and made him even harder. Throwing the sheets to the floor, he increased his pace until his ecstasy peaked and he lay back, breathing heavily with a smile on his face. 

"Aziraphale," he breathed, and felt his heart twist. Sighing, he frowned. If there was one bad thing about being human that he had discovered so far, it was this pathetic lovesickness. He had always wanted to be with the angel, even when he had been a demon. But he had never pined before and he didn't like it one bit. He wandered into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the delicious hot water wash over him, washing with wonderfully scented soap and washing his hair with exquisitely expensive liquids. After turning off the water and drying, he wandered into his room to find something to wear. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and blinked. A stylised black and green tattoo of a snake curved on his hip. He hadn't noticed that yesterday. Running a finger down it, he wondered whose idea that had been, as it seemed too cool for either Hastur or Michael. He shrugged. It looked good whoever had done it. 

He pulled out an outfit - all black, of course - from the wardrobe, and went to say good morning to Eve. Her tongue on his skin tickled, her scales were smooth and her mere presence was relaxing. 

"That's rather ironic, Kyriel," came a cool, musical voice from behind him. Recognising the archangel's voice, he put Eve back in her cage and turned to face Michael. 

"Yeah, well." He gazed at the archangel and his unearthly beauty for a moment, waiting for him to say something further. He didn't, and Crowley started to feel uncomfortable. "Is there a reason you decided to come in uninvited?" His voice remained cool, even arrogant, but he was beginning to get nervous.

The angel's face remained impassive. "I have no doubt Duke Hastur will try and sway you to the side of Hell. I thought I may try to guide you onto the right track."

Crowley folded his arms. "First of all, I am _not_ going to listen to Hastur. And I probably won't listen to you, either."

"Come now, Kyriel." Inhumanly pale eyes searched his face. "I have a busy schedule and am taking time out to try and save your immortal soul. Are you not interested?"

"Sure I'm interested. But of all the angels you're probably the one I'd be least likely to listen to." Michael just looked at him. "Look, say what you've got to say."

"Actually, I was going to take you somewhere," Michael said, taking a jacket from a peg and handing it to Crowley. "Will you come with me?"

Sighing, he nodded. "Sure. I have nothing else to do." And, though he'd never admit it, he was curious.

The angel nodded and headed for the door. Picking up his sunglasses from the table, Crowley followed him. 

It was another beautiful day, and there were a few people out on the streets. From behind mirrored lenses, Crowley watched a man and woman kiss lovingly, children playing in the sun, filled with joy, and the angel's back in front of him. And suddenly found they were outside a church. He stared up at the gothic spires and the frozen rainbows of stained glass . Slowly he ascended the stairs and placed a hand on the door. Then he turned back to Michael. 

"This is where you wanted to take me?" The angel nodded. "Why?"

"I told you. I am attempting to guide you onto the right track."

Crowley sighed and turned back to the door. He had never been able to enter a church before. For while God might be everywhere, a building dedicated to Him held a special holiness, one that burned any demon that tried to enter. But now... Now he could. Pushing the door open he entered and exhaled heavily. The holiness and love that permeated the building may not be obvious to most people, but Crowley could feel it almost tangibly, like an old and tantalisingly familiar blanket settling on his shoulders. The parish of this church believed and loved with a strength he hadn't known was still around in the world. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bowl filled with holy water. Stuff he'd been afraid of since it had been discovered. Plunging his hands into it, he felt a startling shiver of pleasure at the purity, then turned and entered the church proper. Light of a dozen colours and more lit the space, and his gaze was drawn to the figure of Christ on the huge crucifix over the altar. He had been there that day, he and Aziraphale. He wondered how the Christ felt about what His Father had allowed to be done to him. A small smile skipped over his lips. Ineffable. 

"Are you seeking anything, my son?" Crowley turned to see a surprisingly young priest behind him, and he took off his sunglasses. It was hard to see in the strange light of the sun through stained glass. 

"Redemption," Crowley whispered, and surprised himself. Was he really? He hadn't realised that. 

"Well my son, you've come to the right place." The priest sat on the pew next to him and indicated he should sit. Crowley did so and looked at the man. He believed, completely and utterly in his God. Crowley _knew_ He existed. That was kind of the problem. How could one have faith when he knew God existed and knew what sort of God He was - a bloody ineffable one. "Why do you feel you need redemption?"

Crowley smiled without humour. If he told this priest the truth, he wouldn't be believed. " Because of what I did. My... job."

"Your job? Do you want to talk about it?"

"Best not to. They probably wouldn't like it." The priest looked worried. Well he should. "Let's just say I did a lot of bad things, and for the first time I have freedom to do what I will. And I want to make sure I do the right thing."

"Well, we can help you there," he priest smiled, putting a copy of the Bible into his hands. 

Crowley smiled, amused. He knew every word on every page. He'd been around for the writing of most of it. For the love of everything on this Earth, he was _in_ it. It wouldn't help him. The only thing that could help him was himself. He had to find strength and faith within himself. And suddenly he realised. He may know God existed, but he had never had faith in Him before. Maybe that was the path to redemption.

"Thank you, Father," he whispered, and the priest patted him on the shoulder and went off to do some priestly duty or other. Crowley stared down at the book in his hands, and felt as much as heard when the seat the priest had been sat at was occupied once again. His heart swelled and he couldn't help the smile that curved his lips. "I thought you were in Manchester." He turned to see Aziraphale looking amazed, and his amazement increasing as he saw the colour of his eyes. 

"Kyriel?" The angel whispered, and the name on Aziraphale's tongue broke Crowley's heart. 

"Not quite," he smiled to hide the hurt. "Getting closer, though." Aziraphale took his hand curiously, feeling the purely human flesh, stroking a finger along the lines of his palm, looking fascinated. Angelic blue eyes stared at him.

"What _happened_?"

"Punishment. Or a second chance, depending on who you ask." Aziraphale continued to stare at him. The angel's human body really was quite attractive, Crowley mused. "I had a visit from ..." He paused. He really didn't want to mention a demon here and pollute the atmosphere. "Tell you what, why don't I tell you over lunch?" The angel blinked. 

"Well, alright." He followed Crowley out of the church. "I saw you leave your flat with Michael," he told him. "I had no idea why he would be down here, so I followed you."

"You can get arrested for that," Crowley murmured, and the angel flashed him a wounded look. 

"And then I saw you go into the church, and I knew that something wasn't right."

"Or very right, depending on how you look at it." There was still confusion in Aziraphale's eyes, and Crowley wasn't surprised. He was still more than a little confused himself. 

Looking up, he saw a bistro across the road. "You want to try that place?" He asked, and Aziraphale surveyed it and then nodded. Entering the darkened restaurant, they sat in a booth and ordered food and wine. There were only a few other customers; two nervous men who Crowley vaguely recalled seeing in St. James Park feeding ducks, and a group of three young girls giggling over brunch. Once the wine was brought, Crowley sipped at it cautiously. He hadn't had any alcohol since being made human, and was somewhat wary of its effects. 

"Well?" Aziraphale asked, and Crowley gazed at him. 

"I had a visit on Thursday. By Hastur and Michael." Aziraphale stared at him. "They told me that for my part in the aversion of the apocalypse I was to be made human." He shrugged.

"How long for?"

"Until... Well, until the end, I suppose." He winced. Mortality was getting harder and harder to ignore. 

Aziraphale's amazingly beautiful eyes blinked, dark blond lashes touching his cheek. Something stirred deep within Crowley. "And what will you do?" Their food arrived and Crowley took the first bite with relish. Food tasted even more amazing to the human tongue. 

"Do?" He asked, not sure what the angel's question meant. 

"Well, yes. Surely what you do whilst human will determine what will happen to you, um, afterward."

"That's what I've been told," Crowley said, drinking long of the wine.

"So what will you do?"

Crowley sighed, and finished the glass off. "See, the thing is, if I just go off and work in a charity shop or give millions to the starving in Africa, it'll be like giving a nudge and a wink to the Big Guy Upstairs."

Aziraphale blinked at him. "I'm sorry?"

"I'll only be doing it to get a ticket to Heaven so it won't really count."

"Oh."

"So I don't know what to do."

"Do you want to get back into Heaven?" Aziraphale asked seriously, and Crowley looked at him slightly startled. Well, of course he did. He wanted to be with Aziraphale. 

_Aaaand?_ He thought, and there was silence in his mind. Surely there was something worth travelling the difficult path of redemption in Heaven? But he was having trouble thinking of anything. Obviously there was nothing but goodness in Heaven, but it wasn't very interesting. The thought of an eternity up there made him shudder. He had a similar reaction when he thought of an eternity in Hell given the chance to avoid it. But Heaven won slightly with Aziraphale being there. Or from there at least. 

"If they did accept me back into, y' know, the angelic ranks, do you think they'd let me back down here?" Aziraphale blinked at him again, and Crowley continued. "I mean, they're-" he pointed downward. "-probably going to send someone else up to London, and I doubt they're going to be as useless at their job as I was. So they'll need someone else down here, right?"

"You have the chance of being let back into Heaven, and as soon as you get there you'll request to be sent down to Earth?"

"Uh, yeah." Crowley filled his glass and drank it in one go, feeling the world spin pleasantly as he did so. 

"I don't know, Crowley. I do think they should have a few more angels down here to be honest," he sighed. "I mean, there are hundreds of you up here at any given time, and yet only a few angels. It really isn't good enough."

"Yet belief goes on much as it ever did. And humans don't really listen to anyone but themselves anyway."

"Well, yes, but it's the principle of the thing."

"Hmm." Crowley finished his glass and reached for the bottle, which was disappointingly empty. He was just getting drunk enough to be philosophical. That was always fun.

"Anyway, why would you want to return to Earth? Wouldn't you be more interested in seeing old friends?"

"Most of my 'old friends' are in Hell. I hung about with the wrong crowd, remember? Besides, any which are still in Heaven probably haven't forgiven me yet. It took you about 3000 years, didn't it?"

Aziraphale had the dignity to look ashamed. _So much for the infinite mercy of Heaven,_ Crowley thought, not for the first time. 

"Look, you wanna go back to my place? I don't really want to be alone." He said, uncomfortable in admitting a weakness, but discomfort was better than another boring night in his flat without company.

"Alright," the angel agreed, the worried look on his face telling Crowley that he didn't want him to be alone either. It was sort of comforting. Settling the bill, they stepped outside. Crowley put his shades on and they walked back to his flat in slightly uneasy silence. There was much Crowley wanted to say, and he got the feeling the angel wanted to say just as much. But neither of them was sure they should say a word. 

Entering the building, they took the stairs up to Crowley's flat. A few flights from it, Crowley heard a small, scared "Mew!" from the corner. Looking over, he saw Lockheed, Rosemary's cat. 

"What are you doing out here, you dumb cat?" As he picked him up, he purred gratefully and licked his hand. Walking up the penultimate stairs, he went over to Rosemary's door and knocked. She opened it, and smiled when she him and his cargo. Taking the cat from him, she apologised. 

"Thank you, Anthony. Sorry he's such a nuisance, he keeps getting lost."

"No worries."

She noticed Aziraphale and her smile widened. "Oh, and your friend's here!"

Aziraphale gave a small bow. "Good afternoon, madam. Mr. Azira Phale at your service."

Crowley hid a smile. The angel's human names were getting less and less creative. 

"That's ever such a strange name," Rosemary said as a hand ran over Lockheed's fur. He purred appreciatively. 

"It's Biblical," Aziraphale said by way of explanation.

"No it's not," said Crowley, flashing a sweet smile at a suddenly flustered angel. "Except in that weird version you've got, but even then I'm pretty sure no names were mentioned-"

"Yes, yes, dear boy! But it's religious."

"Judeo-Christian religion," Rosemary corrected with a smile. "I'm a witch, you see, so it's not my religion."

Aziraphale looked even more flustered, so Crowley decided to interject in a sudden fit of kindness. "If you'll excuse me interrupting your theological discussion, we'd better get upstairs, Azira," Crowley said the angel's human name with a smile. 

"Alright. Well, thanks again, Anthony. And perhaps we could continue this discussion again another time, Mr. Phale?"

"Um," said the angel, and Crowley dragged him away. As they went up the stairs and fumbled in his pockets for his keys, the angel sighed. 

"I don't know what your problem is, Aziraphale," Crowley said as he found the keys and unlocked the door. "She's a witch, she worships Gods, and all Gods are facets of the one God, right? She's just looking at the Deity in a different way than Christians do."

"Um," repeated Aziraphale. "But the second commandment was not to worship false gods."

"Yeah, but that meant demons parading themselves as gods with glitter and gold and false promises. There's a big difference." Crowley took off his jacket and looked at the angel, who was staring at him. 

"I never thought of it that way before. I think you're right."

"All these years and that never occurred to you?" He shook his head. "Wow. You want another drink?"

"I think I could do with one," Aziraphale agreed, and noticed the glass tank in the corner. "Oh!" He exclaimed as Crowley disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, four bottles of various liquors with two glasses balanced precariously, Eve was sat happily on the angel's arm. Putting his cargo down on the table, he walked over to his two favourite beings. Aziraphale was looking at the snake with adoration. "Oh, she's beautiful, Crowley," he murmured. "I've always loved snakes."

"Well, yes," murmured Crowley meaningfully. 

"Have you given her a name?" He asked as he put her back in her cage and then watched her with fascination. 

"Eve."

A smile curved the angel's lips beautifully. "Of course." He stood and looked at Crowley. Even though he was several inches taller, he suddenly felt very small under Aziraphale's scrutiny. The angel was looking at him, and around him at his aura. "Are you alright, Crowley?" He asked softly, and the demon-turned-human closed his eyes. He suddenly found himself faced with two choices. Break down and find comfort in the angel's arms, or remain cool. 

"For the minute," he answered, choosing coolness and walking over to the couch, sprawling on it. Aziraphale came to sit beside him, rather primly. 

"There's no need to pretend," he told him. 

Crowley smiled a smile full of irony. "I've been pretending since we crawled onto this planet, Aziraphale. It's hard to stop."

Looking pensive, Aziraphale nevertheless kept eye contact with him. "That was mutually agreed, Crowley. Not with words, but... We both knew it could never work." Crowley paused, six thousand years of pain and bitterness filling him. "But we were made for each other," he whispered.

"Yes," Aziraphale agreed. There were many things he could have said then, Crowley knew. About how he had tried to save him, how he had warned him about hanging around with the wrong people, listening to the Morningstar. And Crowley knew he could argue back about how angels didn't have free will, about the tyranny of predestination. But it didn't matter. In the end, none of it mattered. There was Aziraphale, and there was him. The one couldn't exist contentedly without the other, not even in Heaven. Everything else was just obstacles that had got in their way. Or, as Crowley was starting to suspect, they had let get in their way. He was still scared for the angel's divinity if he kissed him. But he wanted to. Then the choice was taken from him. Aziraphale leaned forward slightly brushed Crowley's lips with his own. 

Angel-touch made Crowley's human body shudder pleasantly. When the angel pulled back, it was a little guiltily. "I'm sorry, I- It's just, with your eyes like that, you look so much like Ky-"

"Don't," Crowley whispered, putting a shaking finger against the angel's lips. "It hurts." 

Aziraphale looked at him questioningly. "When Michael said the name, it just made me bitter 'cause the only time I ever heard him say my God-blessed name was when he tore my wings off ." The angel winced. "But when you say it, it _hurts_. Because I remember what I lost that day." He lowered his hand and his eyes, but Aziraphale didn't say anything for a long minute. 

"They made me watch, you know. When Michael cut your wings off." Crowley stared at him. He hadn't known. "Raphael held me as... as he did it. I think it was punishment for not saving you." Aziraphale looked to the side, sadness and guilt in his face. 

Crowley felt anger stir in him. "How were you supposed to save me? Were you supposed to stop me from thinking? Because that's all I _did_. Not to mention-" he was going to start ranting - but he stopped himself. Because Aziraphale looked so hurt already, and he knew that saying all those things and getting angry would only hurt him more. He looked at his angel for a moment and sighed. "I've said I'm sorry a few times over the years, haven't I?" A nod of agreement. "I meant it, you know. I am sorry I hurt you. It doesn't make much difference, but..." He shrugged.

"It makes a lot of difference," Aziraphale whispered. "And I know you meant it." They stared at each other for a long moment, aware that what was said next could be a turning point. It turned out that nothing was said. They both leaned forward at the same time and kissed each other. It was almost chaste, full of love, before melting into something more desirous. They pulled away, breathless, just staring at each other for a minute. "I love you Crowley," Aziraphale whispered. Crowley's heart caught in his throat and he felt a silly lovestruck smile spread across his face, much to his horror. 

"And I love you, angel." He pulled the angel into his chest, so that his back was against his chest, and his face was in Aziraphale's golden-blond curls that smelled faintly of honey. The angel sighed contentedly and Crowley smiled. After long minutes, Aziraphale stirred to look at the clock. 

"Would you mind terribly if I put the television on? It's just that Crossroads is on..."

Crowley sniggered. "Angels have no taste," he told him, and handed Aziraphale the remote control. He looked at it blankly, and managed to turn it on and find the right channel. Crowley half watched it, finding the adverts much more interesting than the actual program. After watching the commercials, though, he found he had a strange desire to eat bacon. He ignored it and sat through the remaining fifteen minutes of the unlikely and uninteresting antics of the population of a hotel. He had started snoozing by the time the theme music announced to all that it was safe to emerge from wherever they had been hiding.

"Do you mind if I see what else is on the television? I only have the terrestrial channels at the shop, and I've always wondered what could be on so many channels."

"Knock yourself out," Crowley advised, before reaching for the coke he'd brought as a mixer and pouring some in a glass. 

"You know," said Aziraphale, peering at the screen, "I'm sure that I inhabited that man while I was trying to find my body."

Looking up from his coke to see what Aziraphale was watching, he saw it was some American Evangelist singing about Godly telephones on the Christian channel, and looked back down at his coke. "That must've been scary."

"Mmmm, quite," agreed Aziraphale, moving on. They ended up watching a history documentary, and neither of them remembered the event happening the way the historians insisted it did. He then flicked through the remaining channels and found nothing. "What motion pictures do you have?" 

"Films, angel," he said with a chuckle before pushing him off him and winced at the stiffness in his bones as he crawled over to a pile of DVD's near the player and pushed them toward the angel. He choose the Fellowship of the Ring extended DVD, as it was the closest thing to a book. By the time the end of the film neared, Crowley was getting hungry, and was wondering whether he dared try to cook. 

"That was actually rather good," Aziraphale said as the credits rolled. "I thought they would simply murder the book, but I rather liked it."

"Yeah," agreed Crowley, leaning his head forward and breathing in Aziraphale's wonderful scent. "You smell gorgeous," he murmured, and his angel turned around in his arms and looked at him. 

"And you look rather nice," he said quietly. "Actually, you look very nice." His gaze moved from Crowley to study his aura. It tickled. "You were always attractive, of course, but your aura spoiled your good looks. But now your aura's much lighter, and you look... beautiful." He stared into his eyes, and then cupped his face as he moved to kiss him. As he did so, Crowley's grip on him tightened. He never wanted him out of his arms, never wanted his glorious lips out of kissing distance. 

"Will you stay here tonight?" He asked suddenly, surprising himself.

"Why, of course. I'll stay as long as you want me to. I have to go to the shop to get my delivery tomorrow, but I can come back if you wish?"

"Yes, I do wish." After a pause: "Do you know how to cook?"

"I can make toast."

Crowley sighed and pushed the angel gently off him. "I'll go see what I can do. You want anything?"

"Do you have any cake?"

"Yep." Wandering into the kitchen, he first sliced angel cake, battenburg and coffee cake for Aziraphale and took it for him before facing the fridge. He picked up a microwave meal and looked doubtfully at the instructions. Deciding to give it a go, he pierced the covering and set the microwave to three minutes on full power as he was supposed to, and then looked doubtfully at what had been removed from the microwave. It didn't look much like a meal to him. Putting it onto a plate, he took it into the living room where Aziraphale had found a rerun channel and was watching Murder, She Wrote. Gingerly tasting the food, he found it wasn't bad and ate it hungrily. He was still hungry after he'd finished and ate the single slice of cake that Aziraphale hadn't got to yet. 

As he got comfortable on the couch, the other settled back into his arms and sighed contentedly. Closing his eyes, Crowley revelled in the closeness, something he'd wanted for so long that was now, finally, rightfully his. He wanted more, but for the moment, just the angel's kiss was mind-blowing enough. 

They watched reruns all night, until Crowley caught himself falling asleep. "I need to go to bed, Aziraphale," he said, yawning.

"Can I come with you?" The angel asked, almost nervously. 

"You started sleeping?" Asked Crowley, surprised.

"No, but I'd like to hold you as you do." Crowley gave him a sweet smile. 

"I'd like that," he said softly, and went into the bathroom. Washing his hands, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and was startled at how content he looked. He smiled, wondering idly if this were just a dream. If it was, it was one he didn't want to wake up from. 

Wandering into his bedroom, pulling off his clothes and pulling on his pajama's, feeling deliciously exhibitionist doing it in front of the angel who had conjured up some cream tartan pajama's for himself. Crowley bit back a laugh. 

"What?" Asked Aziraphale self-consciously. "This is the sort of thing human's wear for bed, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Yeah it is." He chuckled again and lay down on the bed, hands behind his head. 

Aziraphale lay beside his, and pointed to the tattoo on his hip. 

"When did you have that done?" He asked curiously.

"I didn't," replied Crowley, yawning. "So either Hastur or Michael did it."

"It's rather nice. It suits you."

"Yup."

"You really are tired, aren't you?"

"Mmm-hmm," Crowley agreed, barely able to keep his eyes open and turned onto his side. Aziraphale spooned up beside him, and the lights went off. "Thanks," he murmured, and fell asleep in his angel's embrace. 

* * *

Next Part 

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